


He'd Be Proud

by lastgoldsun



Series: The Shadow of a Moment [2]
Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, alcohol cw, but this isn't 2009 fanfiction.net so idk, emetophobia cw, my instinct is to tag this as hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8955151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastgoldsun/pseuds/lastgoldsun
Summary: You close the door and return to the bottle of wine on the coffee table in the living room. It’s half gone. Your second bottle. Not including everything you had earlier that evening. She didn’t pay any attention because this is a stag do and it’s normal to get drunk on a stag do even if you don’t have any friends to get drunk with. You sit down and attempt to pour yourself another glass. Your hand slips. A crimson stain blooms on the carpet. It’s the alcohol making your hands shake. Nothing more. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been shaking for the past week. It doesn’t mean anything.
Vic tells Robert how proud of him their dad would be. Robert has trouble dealing with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a text conversation with [my sister](http://moojolras.tumblr.com). We were talking about how Robert would cope with people bringing up Jack in the lead up to the wedding and this is in response to that.

She’s singing when she leaves. That song from that musical about the fat girl. _I can hear the bells._ You wave from the back door as she totters off, swaying slightly in her heels. It’s a short walk. She’ll be okay. You wouldn’t let her walk alone if not. And it’s not like she’s drunk. She’s just giddy with excitement. With pride. The same pride she’s been telling you about over and over again all evening. From the taxi to the restaurant and back to the pub. _I’m proud. I’m so proud. Mum would be proud. Dad…_

You close the door and return to the bottle of wine on the coffee table in the living room. It’s half gone. Your second bottle. Not including everything you had earlier that evening. She didn’t pay any attention because this is a stag do and it’s normal to get drunk on a stag do even if you don’t have any friends to get drunk with. You sit down and attempt to pour yourself another glass. Your hand slips. A crimson stain blooms on the carpet. It’s the alcohol making your hands shake. Nothing more. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been shaking for the past week. It doesn’t mean anything.

You take a swig from the bottle. No point trying to save your pride now.

Your phone buzzes. It takes you a good minute and a half to fumble it out of your pocket, type in the passcode and focus your eyes.

_Home safe. Had a lovely night. I meant what I said. Dad would be so proud of you. Night x_

You put your phone down and pick up the bottle. It almost slips from your grip. You down as much as you can without taking a breath because, well, the more you drink, the less there is to spill.

 

Your face stares back at you from the darkened window. You usually pay no attention to your wrinkles, but they’re starting to look less like laughter lines and more like cracks. Your hands are shaking more than ever. Your foundations aren’t strong enough to withstand the quaking. It can’t be long before you’re going to fall apart. You won’t have time to tell him you’re sorry. That you tried. He’ll find what’s left of you after the dust settles, and you’ll just have to hope he understands.

You’ve moved on to whisky. Fancy? Maybe. You’re too drunk to read the label. All you know is that it tastes like burning.

 _I wish Dad could be there next week, Rob, I really do._ Her eyes had started to water as she picked at the seeded roll on her plate, pulling it apart with her fingers much to the disgust of the snooty couple drinking champagne at the next table. _He’d be so proud of you. You’re finally letting yourself be happy. I never thought I’d see that. Dad would be so pleased._

You run your fingers across your left cheekbone, feeling for the ghost of a black eye.

_(You’re headed for a fall, son.)_

 

He finds you on the bathroom floor at 3am, sprawled on the tiles with vomit down the front of your most expensive shirt. His usually warm hands feel icy against your cheeks and you almost flinch away. The harsh light makes him look pale and drawn. He smells like beer and cigarette smoke and sweat. He’s still drunk, but nowhere near as bad as you, and he’s been out with friends, celebrating his final days of bachelordom with laughter and flashing lights and thudding bass.

_Look at me. Can you look at me?_

You try your best, but his image is swimming across your vision. He rests a hand on your forehead.

_How much did you have to drink? When did Vic leave? How long have you been here?_

_I’m sorry._

Your breath tastes like acid.

_Don’t apologise. Can you sit up?_

_I’m such an idiot._

_Sit up, Robert._

You do as you’re told. You start to gag and he manages to maneuverer you so you’re leant over the toilet bowl just in time. You cough and splutter and apologise with every spare breath. He rubs your back and you hate him a bit for being so kind. When you’re done he helps you out of your shirt and disappears downstairs, returning with a glass of water a minute later.

_Drink._

_I’m sorry. I’m the worst._

_Just drink. We can talk in the morning._

_I hate this. I hate myself._

_Please don’t say that. You’re drunk._

You only manage half a glass of water before you feel sick again. He waits a while, allowing your stomach to settle, then helps you to your feet. He takes you to the bedroom and helps you change. He wipes your face with a damp towel and puts you to bed. It’s a simple series of tasks that feel like running an uphill marathon. You don’t stop talking. You’re not sure what you’re saying, only that you can’t stop and that he looks more worried with every word you say. By the time he’s turned off the light and slipped into bed, he can’t even look at you.

 

He wakes you up at 1pm the following day, carrying a tray with a mug of water, a couple of aspirin and a plate of dry toast. He sits on the edge of the bed while you sip cautiously, perching like he’s a guest in his own home. You can’t look him in the eye, so instead you focus on everything else. Your banging head, your churning stomach, the ache of regret in your chest.

_We need to talk._

_About what?_

_What you said last night._

_What did I say last night? I was bladdered._

He takes a deep breath rubs one of his eyes. He looks exhausted. And not just the kind from a bad night’s sleep.

_All kinds of stuff. That you hated yourself and that you wished you’d never been born._

_I was out of it._

_Don’t._

_Don’t what?_

_Say that. I tried that with you at the hospital last year. You didn’t fall for it then so I don’t know why you’d think I’d fall for it now._

You shake your head and take a bite of toast. You don’t want to think about that day. About white walls and the smell of disinfectant and the quiet of not knowing. A crumb gets caught in your throat and you start to cough. You can’t stop coughing and your stomach clenches like a fist. Before you know it you’re crouched by the toilet again, emptying yourself of nothing because that’s all there is left. He sits on the floor, leant against the bath, legs pulled to his chest like he’s a small child rather than a man in his mid-twenties.

He doesn’t speak until you’re on your feet again, washing your mouth out at the sink.

_Do you even want to get married?_

The empty space in your gut is suddenly filled with ice water.

_Why would you even ask that?_

_Why wouldn’t I? You’ve been so off the past few weeks and then last night-_

_People get drunk on their stag dos._

He pinches the bridge of his nose in that way he does. You’re just glad he’s not looking at you. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep it together when he’s looking at you like that. A look that’s somewhere between concerned and terrified.

_You went out for dinner with Vic and then came home and watched a film. People don’t get hammered doing that._

He looks up again. His frown has smoothed out but his eyes have gone cold in a way that you haven’t seen in a long time.

_If you don’t want to get married you’d best tell me now to save us a lot of trouble down the road._

_For God’s sake. I proposed to you. Of course I want to get married._

_Then why are you so unhappy? Why are you getting drunk and talking like you want to kill yourself._

_This conversation is making me want to kill myself._

_Robert!_

He’s looking up at you like he’s just waiting for you to let him down, because it’s all anyone seems to do. You’re the last person who should be letting him down, but here you are, breaking his heart again. It’s happened so many times already that you’ve stopped counting.

You thought hiding it was best for him, but it’s just hurting you both. You sit down on the floor across from him, mirroring his posture despite the fact you want to reach for him. Now isn’t the time.

_Please, Robert. Please tell me what’s happening with you. Seeing you like this is killing me. You can tell me anything._

It’s nothing. It’s nothing compared to what he’s been through. What he still has to go through on a daily basis. He’s so strong and you’re so pathetic and he deserves someone as strong as he is.

_You’ll think I’m stupid and petty._

_If something is hurting you this much there’s no way I could think that._

You look away, you run a hand over your face, and you say it before you can stop yourself.

_It’s my dad._

He doesn’t say anything. His silence saying more about his confusion than words ever could.

_Everyone keeps talking about him. Saying how proud he’d be and how much he’d want to be here for the wedding. It’s all Vic talked about last night. How proud he’d be. How proud he’d be that I’m finally being myself._

You take a shaky breath and try to steady yourself. It’s like trying to inhale treacle.

_And in my head I just keep going over it again and again. What happened. I was fifteen all over again and I was scared and I hated myself. I want to get married, but he’d hate it. He’d hate me so much._

He closes the space between you, crawling across the tiles and sitting by your side. It takes all of your strength not to lean into him, to let him comfort you and tell you it’s going to be okay until it feels like it might be. But that’s not going to fix anything. Not in the long run anyway.

_He’s just going to be there. All day. It doesn’t matter that he’s gone because Diane and Vic are going to be talking about him all day. And there’s some stupid part of me that still wishes he was._

You expect him to say something. You don’t know what, because what could he say? You’re being stupid. You’re agonising over the past and letting it ruin what should be the happiest day of your life. What could he possibly say to that?

He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls you close, letting you bury your face in his shoulder so you can cry if you need to (and you do need to, although you’d never admit it out loud). The words will come later, when your hangover has eased and you’re composed enough to talk this through over a cup of tea or several.

The words will come, but you don’t want them right now. All you want is to feel safe. To feel wanted.

And here, on the cold bathroom floor in his arms, that’s exactly what you feel.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://r-ogersbarnes.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/sugdensrobert)


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